IN THE MULBERRY FIELD
by Mistress Grimm
Summary: ...Under the mulberry tree. (ON HIATUS)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.

**Warning:** Please consider the genre of this story, thank you.

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**IN THE MULBERRY FIELD  
****CHAPTER ONE: "FECKLESS"**

The hours on the mechanical face ticked…ticked…ticked…ticked…ticked…ticked on by, day became night and darkness into light, and this was flaunted when the world peered in through the gossamer besmirched windows. Those days rolled on by into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. Time was king and it showed when ol' neglect settled in, creating a comfortably numb hidey-hole for those barred; for surely this place no longer served its purpose as a home.

More than two years had flown by since despair's homecoming, those years gone in a blink of an eye. The memories were nothing more than mere shadows, ink on life's pages, and those were the only traces that were left as the sands washed away all other likely certainties by every night's end. Everything was gone, everything but this place and the broken soul it harbored, and all he had were his fragments.

The color had faded from those avocado green walls, the fancy wallpaper stained by arcane splotches of yellow plasma. The dusky wood floors were sheltered in dust. The chambers were cluttered, papers and objects scattered all over the place. The trash nearly overflowed the bins, though not stacked all the way up to the ceiling.

A lone figure sat there upon the bed's edge, his jaw slacked, eyes glassy and his stare jaded. He gazed off into the gloom, at nothing in particular. His white overcoat, though immaculate or sterile, was wizened, while the knees of his trousers were dingy. And though his face was clean save for the stroke of stubble upon his chin, his ginger locks were long, pulled back, and had far outgrown that style he donned during the years up to his maturity.

MATURITY: the years before it made it seem promising, but now he could see well that it wasn't at all what it was cracked up to be. Nothing ever truly was what he thought, his hoary fantasies proven to be mere self-delusions. Happiness, he realized, was always feigned. And as for himself, he was painstakingly feckless.

When having snapped out of his dreary daze, he regained his composure and regarded his surroundings. He stood up, the soles of his boots knocking against the wood as he departed from the bedroom.

After having made it downstairs, he wandered almost aimlessly until having noticed the condition in the wastebasket. He collected the trash by having hauled it up by the straps and then tied the bag closed with a knot, and all afore he lugged it outside with him when going out to retrieve the mail. Outside, he disposed of the dreadful bag into its proper container by the curve, putting the lid on it prior to fishing a hand into the letterbox. He pulled out seven pieces and retreated back indoors.

He flipped through the posts, two of which were nothing more than spam, four of which were bills, and…a mysterious letter.

Staring at the envelope, the man noted how it was addressed to him but with no return dispatch, the sender seemed anonymous thus far. Upon further study, he discerned the paper casing to be worn, the ink on the outside fade as though the letter dated years back and, yet, somehow it was singed, the edges burnt, bounded and smudged in soot. There was something awfully eerie about this, even if it was clearly nothing more than inanimate thing. It was not like the letter was going to bite him any time soon, and the idea of such seemed far too illogical and asinine to be considered a possibility. Before he could open it, however, he consciously glanced up at the time and understood well that it would have to wait.

The redhead thoroughly washed and sanitized his hands while at the sink, numbly cleansing them up past his wrists, his sleeves rolled up ahead of time. As soon as he dried his hands with a disposable towel, he grabbed his belongings and marched to the garage.

He unlocked and slid into his compact SUV (sports utility vehicle), jumped the engine and stalled there briefly to allow the motor to warm up. With the engine humming, he shifted the gears into reverse and gently pressed his foot on the gas. The sensors on the garage door went off then, detecting vehicular movement before hoisting up to allow him passage to back out into the driveway. And once there, he yielded briefly and steered out into the road, shifted the gears into drive and drove off, adhering to the speed limit.

Peering down the thoroughfare, he narrowed his eyes at his settings. The conditions were perilous, the land itself insipid, and the atmosphere behaved as a white, vaporous veil.

"Shit! This miasma is as thick as…blood on a knife."

He leaned forward in his seat some, while he tightly gripped the steering wheel, and to the point his knuckles turned a bone white; his fingers were thin, almost meatless. To his bewilderment, he saw how vacant the streets were.

_"…Kazuma…"_

_A voice, as faint as can be, sobbed from a close distance._

_"…Kazuma…"_

_"…Kazuma…"_

_"...Kuwabara."_

_"Doctor…"_

_"Doctor… Doctor Kuwabara!"_

_His eyes widened in response to having been addressed so abruptly, having heard an all too familiar voice beforehand, and one of which withdrew his attention until he came crashing back from Neptune. When his sight came into focus, he recovered himself from gawking down at his latex secured hands, the rest of himself clothed in scrubs. In his right hand he held a scalpel._

_He drew his attention upward, a blood bag being the very next thing he saw. The blood oozed, dripping down a long, transparent tube that lead down into a needle, a needle inserted and secure by surgical to the inner elbow of an arm._

_"The patient is under, stable and ready for your next move."_

_He turned to the voice that emerged from his left, and to which then he stared into a pair mahogany pools both individually encompassed by almond-shaped offish white._

_The nurse furrowed her brow in concern. "Are you alright, doctor?"_

_Shifting his eyes from her, his gaze swept around the room, and recognized the awkward stares he was receiving and from whom. There were at least six of them, and they were all gathered, standing around the operation table. His assistant shook his head, grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him over to have a word with him._

_"Are you sure you can do this? You look out of it, been so since…" The man drawled off into Kuwabara's ear, then slid before him, having pulled down his mask to speak more clearly. "We could call in someone else?"_

_Kazuma paused for a moment, and mauled over the option as the heart monitor beeped monotonously from behind. He shook his head a moment later, perhaps having dug his grave rather than coming to a decision._

_His assistant inhaled profoundly. "Listen, you need to get your head straight…" He threw in a cautionary response. "…or else you'll botch this up."_

_In defense, Kazuma scowled at him. "Since when have I ever messed up?" His dark eyes flashed as he leered. "What am I? …Doctor Death?"_

_He hated being doubted, all the more despised being undermined, and loathed being berated by those who held themselves to be far greater than he. Incensed, he wanted to bite this cocky bastard's face, and tear it clean off with his teeth and rip the flesh into tiny pieces so that not even the best surgeons could assist the little shit in looking normal ever again._

_Why so much animosity? Simple, because for awhile that sycophant has had his eyes set on his career since day one._

_The Ph. A. rolled his eyes, finding no hilarity in the situation, failing to identify the threat. "One mistake is all it takes." He reminded him. "Mess up and there will be serious hell to pay. No one will forgive you for that, you know it."_

**_'Mess up and... No one will forgive you for that.'_**

_Those words echoed through Kazuma's mind…_

…And within a blinding flash, he slammed on the breaks.

The wheels on his SUV screamed, and then only wailed and sputtered when the vehicle nearly spun out of control.

Since when did he have such a lead foot, or a need for speed? He almost ran a red light on his way to…

Say, where was he going anyway? When he thought about it, his mind drew to a blank. All he knew was that he needed to be somewhere…somewhere important. It was clear to him that he was needed, gravely so, but as to where he was needed and what for—that itself eluded him.

He was not needed at the hospital was he? From what he could recall, he was currently on temporary leave.

Kazuma turned off the motor, unfastened his seatbelt, opened the door and slid out of the driver's seat to inspect for any possible damages.

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

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More to come in the future, so please be patience. This story was inspired by various sources, especially (inspirited to) by a friend of your's truly. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.

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**THE MONSTER**

He scoped about for any oncoming traffic, but observed none at all. To his surprise, the entire area was completely void of all life, even when…downtown?

…Where was everyone?

Something was not right about any of this, and the town itself was not at all recognizable. The vicinity was grungier than usual, vapid even, and the man-made structures stood like villainous silhouettes looming in from a distance. All the more maddening, the fog made it nearly impossible to see shite.

Other than his own, not a single soul was around.

Everything was so still, there was a silence that echoed in an ominous ring.

Kazuma hopped back into his ride.

"Fuck this place, damn Ghost Town."

Instinctively he reached to turn the key, only to fondle around on the wheel after his grip clasped upon nothing more than thin air. The key was missing, and the first clue should have been the ceasing of the incessant digging that always accompanied when leaving your key in the ignition point.

He glanced down on the floorboard, shifting around in the seat to see if the key had somehow fallen down there. After failing to detect his keys thus far, he jumped out of the vehicle and began checking under the seat, in the cracks, the built in coasters, and even in the door panel—though that itself was a ridiculous thing to do. The ginger even went as far as to check around and under the automobile, that is, he crawled around on his hands and knees for a measly two minutes…in vain!

There was Nothing, Naught-a, Zero, Zilch, or a Nil.

He turned up empty handed, and with no keys in sight he spat out obscenities. After surveying his surroundings with yet another turn, he climbed back into the SUV to retrieve his cell. Yet, once he slipped back inside, something bizarre caught his eye…and it was not his cellphone.

The mysterious letter from beyond…had appeared mysteriously in the front passenger's seat.

"What the fuck?"

Exactly!

Maybe the letter was alive after all? He certainly could not recall ever bringing that thing with him. Hmm, it being "haunted" sounded like a far more reasonable explanation than it sprouting legs and sneaking into his vehicle and then finally somehow crawled itself up into the seat while he was not looking.

He reached over to pick up the letter, but suddenly hesitated when fear crept over him.

Fear? Afraid? Afraid of what? What was he thinking? That superstitious attitude never helped him any at all in the past, so why would it now? If anything, he learned to face the issues ahead and head on, rather than dealing with them later when he "felt" like it. Had not life taught him that important lesson at an early age?

Such a thought exhumed a memory from his childhood…

"_WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HAAAA HAAAA WEEEEEEEHHHH!"_

"_Quiet!" His father's voice cracked, the man's thunder cutting his cries in half._

_Kazuma was a shrill nine year old, if not almost ten at the time. He suffered issues in his social life, as he did in his teen years and likewise into adulthood, especially at school though the concerns at home often attested to be far greater on the scales of severity. Why?_

_The boy jumped at the harshness in the adult's tone, his cheeks wet and stained by tears. "But…but daddy, it's REAL." He pleaded for understanding, for reasoning. "I saw it! It tried to hurt me!"_

_For reasons most normal people could not comprehend, for things he saw that no one else could, and the things that haunted him._

"_Stop crying." His father rebuked. "That crying isn't going to solve anything, other than prove how much of a wretched louse you truly are deep down. So, stop being such a pussy." _

_The boy gaped at him, overcome by hurt and disbelief. He dreaded his father for those reasons._

_He minded his father, examining as the man lit up a cigarette, only to puff away on its noxious vapors as it hung on the right corner of his lips. "Look at you, behaving like a newborn. Mister Sensitive, I've seen toddlers act way tougher than you." He stuffed his hands into his pockets and then jeered; "Need a diaper change, little man? Oh, that's right, you're not a man at all but a BIG wannabe, who's weak and will never prove himself worthy of what it is to have an admirable title." _

_There was a brief pause as ashes were flicked away into the passing wind. Amazing how the embers never manage to singe the man's hideous mustache, though such was an absurd imagining conjured up in a child's mind. _

"_Being a man comes with responsibility, kid." The man further edified. "It is not necessarily the gender itself, but the ideology and with that comes the might, strength, and power that is earned and not inherited and neither can it ever be given. For if not a man, then you are a monster; that is, an entity who appears as a man but is not and thus is not equal to man, nor does he have the rights of man. In this current age, being born does not alone qualify you to be a man; then again there has always been a fine line between man and monster and such entities live to prove whether they are one or the other."_

_The boy stared at him, rapt in the wisdom given, even though he did not understand the lecture entirely. He continued to sniffle, even so, fear residing and impervious on turning him loose. _

_And his father saw such weakness in him. "Look at you, you little monster, sniveling and whimpering like a kicked dog. You are not worthy of being my son, and you are not worthy of the name KUWABARA—not worthy to be a KUWABARA!"_

_Those words stroke a chord with his younger self, perhaps the main cause to the concentrated bitterness that often surged from within. Even for a boy, he quickly grew to hate his father, perhaps always did. "You… SHUT UP, OLD MAN! YOU TAKE THAT BACK, GODDAMMIT!"_

_That bastard guffawed like the madman he was, amused by the boy's sudden hostility. _

_The boy whom he once was had often wondered as to why he could not have a normal father like everyone else. A father that actually struck him like Urameshi's old man had often done whenever that imp got into trouble, rather than a father who made a complete mockery of him and so terribly humiliate him at any given chance when it presented itself. Correspondingly, he once longed for a father that stuck around when you needed him, even when unwanted, and not be elsewhere selfishly playing mercenary; for having a cutthroat for a father was the hardest part of all. _

_The man often forced the boy to do grueling chores. Actually, his father put him to work and with the lack of reason other than he fulfill his "fair share", which proved to be nothing more than exploitation, his father having took advantage of his ignorance. His sister stood by and did nothing to help, not even so much as slip him a hint. In fact, she endorsed the suffering of his free labor and punished him whenever he stepped out of line. _

_Frankly, he did not know what was worse: having a cruel somebody like Shizuru for an older sister or having this callous papa to look up to? He had no mama to shelter him, let alone unable to remember her face._

_He became all the more aware of subjugation and all the more disgruntled by the age of sixteen; his patience had run on empty. Exhausted and belligerent toward his circumstance, he rebelled by that age and to his astonishment met little to no resistance from either of them. And it was then—and only then—did he receive the respect he always craved from his family. _

_Evidently, there was a lesson in all of that: Give others an inch and they will take a mile? …Perhaps not. More or less, it all had something to do with "monsters". _

_Sad to say it took him so long to get the picture, but Kazuma was a rather slow individual during his youth. _

_Being an optimist, he knew one thing for sure: he did not want to be like either of them, cold and pitiless. Good had to win, had to triumph over evil, and good things happen to good people while the bad got their just rewards. But from the true pragmatist's point of view, "idealism" was another word that meant "stupidity". They, the only two surviving members of his family, were realists. _

"_Atta boy, there's fight to be found in you yet." _

Fight? He always had "fight" within himself, for he did not and could not ever succumb to defeat. Ever determined, Kazuma Kuwabara could not even consider the chances of losing, for success was his only option and failure was not…if he could help it, that is.

It was better to burn quickly and bright, than burn slowly and dull without a fight.

This "iron man", no matter how feckless, was NOT going to be a slave to his fears, and so he fought.

The psychic took hold of the envelope and traced the sullied edges with his thumb, all afore he carefully tore it open. Upon reaching into the packet, he discovered a folded piece of parchment. He removed the paper from within its holder, and that the paper revealed to be smeared by dismal hues on a crude drawing.

Kazuma's eyes broadened, three times the size, while his rustic orpiment orbs contracted.

Had he seen this before…somewhere…?

He drew this when he was six. The psychic could not remember why, when exactly, or for what reasons, but he knew he drew this and at that age, the greatest tipoff being that his name was written alongside the year on the back of the parchment. The recollection persisted to evade him.

The illustration was that of a building, an eerie one at that for the entire structure was painted black.

The structure was not the only thing that caught his eye, however, as there was a figure…a menacing character surrounded by a pool of red, and likewise covered in "bleeding" shadow. The being looked to be man yet beast yet nothing in between, and with a fearsome blade in hand he was cutting through space… The thing was cutting through dimensions.

The thing was cutting through dimensions, carving out the sky as IT peeled the blue back like skin from a piece of meat.

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

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I would love to thank my readers and also my reviewers: IamEnVIOUS, Kitty Uzumaki, and Malika Ariya Amari!

In this chapter, you've read my hypothesis as to why Kuwabara holds so much animosity towards his father. Those of you who have read the manga, you may have noticed this animosity when his father made a special appearance.

As for Kuwabara's observations made on Yusuke, allow me to explain. It was mentioned in the manga that Yusuke's father was quite strict and thus he hated his father for that reason and that reason alone. Also, it was hinted that Yusuke's father had been around, all along, somewhere in the background. I, myself, believe that it was his father who paid for the new apartment that his mother and he (Yusuke) had moved into rather than his ridiculous claim of his mother receiving help from a pimp. Remember, Yusuke was a bitter teen and was known for his impertinent remarks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.  
**Note:** I will do my best to keep the characters in character and follow the manga's storyline rather than the one seen in the anime.

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**JANUS**

Kazuma coughed down at the drawing as a sudden blow of nausea went straight to his gut. His digits glossed over the thin layers of wax, and the paper's crisp edges stung his skin.

What a bizarre, disturbing piece of art. Did he really have such a warped mind as a child? Never mind that. Who in hell was responsible for sending him this mess in the first place? Was the old man playing some sort of sick joke on him?

None of this was making sense, not a single lick.

He shifted his awareness onto other details. There were these bird-like creatures in the illustration, though he was not so sure if they were genuinely birds. The firmament itself appeared shattered; the dimensional membrane was cracked like an opaque mirror only to be flayed away by a ghastly fiend.

What kind of child draws these sorts of things?

Oh, right. He drew it, he drew this…eyesore.

All the more unsettling was the monster's ability to cut through proportions, how it manipulated reality. …And with a blade? No, it was clearly a sword.

Kazuma's breath hitched when he discerned the familiarity.

Was this a prediction that had come to pass or is it one yet to be? How did he, as a boy, know that such a feat was even feasible? And who was the foreboding figure exactly?

It could not be him, it just could not be. Why? The entity looked nothing like him, that's why. What with the red hood with its overcast which shrouded its features, the gruesome grin, and the savage demeanor overall. There were no eyes on the guy, none drawn at all, just…blackness.

But was he so sure about that? How did he know he was not in denial? And—oh, yeah, did he take note that he could not see the being's face?

It all had to be a coincidence, or so he kept telling himself over and over for about five minutes until he managed to push the whole idea aside.

There was another thing about that picture, where the paper was littered with depictions of vaults and stones and all to which was fenced in by enormous bars.

This he had no difficulty following, perhaps even inclined to, due to the personal experience of when dealing with the dead. Whether it this was due to his keen psychic gifts, or the loss of life in the emergency room, death was always impending around him. He understood well that he could not escape death, as all people do. Death was inevitable.

After folding the paper in quarters, he stashed the drawing into his coat pocket and all prior to the search for his cellphone. He combed about in the vehicle for the device, including having checked the glove compartment and the compartment under the armrest, before it suddenly dawned on him— He had inserted his phone into the receptacle strapped on his belt, and had done so since before he had left his house. He reached behind him, on the right side of himself, and retrieved the mobile.

With the device in hand, he tapped the screen and lo and beheld that the service was without connection. Baffled, he did not understand as to how the location could be a dead zone. He was in what was known to be the busiest part of town, for crying out loud!

He swore acridly, but then swiftly fell into silence when his eyes beheld her face.

Yukina, his dear sweet Yukina…

She was his consolation in this mad, abysmal world. She was precious. She was a pure, melodious vision.

Inversely, his existence was flawed in comparison, his rind marred down to the marrow with battle scars.

He remembered the fresh scent of her creamy flesh, the silky texture of her watery "sea foam" hair, and the way she peered up at him with those crimson puddles of hers. He studied the fine details of her lips, noting how petite her mouth was, and how delicate the lines were. Her gaze reflected her innocence while those eyelashes laced kissed lids, beauty unspoiled…

…Violated. …Complicated, faceless, and broken. The ginger was undeserving of her, as he had been told so avidly by those who knew him.

Fate was cruel, as was life in general.

Having comprehended that it was only a snapshot, he sucked in a quivering breath. He pressed the power icon on the monitor and returned the mobile back into its holder, securely. And with the need for assistance in mind, he slunk out of the vehicle, locked the doors and began trekking.

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

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Sorry for such a short chapter, though I "hope" you do enjoy reading this one though no matter the length.

I want to take this opportunity to thank my readers and reviewers. Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.

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**MORTALITY**

The dank air was thick and suffocating, his surroundings drowned by a sea of white. The whole experience was like meandering within a glass filled with diluted milk.

Kazuma gagged, entirely disgusted with that concept. He abhorred milk. Yeah, sure, he drank plenty of that stuff whilst enduring an insufferable youth, but that was before he realized how nasty milk genuinely was.

Now, I bet you're wondering: How did this come about? Well, a long story short… Whilst he was in medical school, Kazuma had taken it upon himself to learn nutrition and, as an upshot, gave his diet a total revolution. He had developed a completely different perspective on sustenance, you see, and became more particular as to what he was shoving down his throat. And quite frankly, he could not believe some of the foodstuff he used to consume, like the illiterate boob that he once was.

So, definitely, he was beginning to really despise the fog. What with the cold mist which seemed to rain in on him from all angles, and the dampening cold that penetrated into him as the moisture itself had begun to soak well into his attire. Still, the sky was becoming abysmal, a dark and a thundering portent of doom.

He cursed under his breath at the unremitting climate conditions, sensing it in his bones that it would rain soon. The man could literally feel it in his battle scars, his chest particularly. His heart throbbed like a son-ova-bitch.

Unfortunately, the only good news about the rain was that it would clear away all the haze. And the bad news, of course, was that he would be caught in the midst of that, like he needed to be washed away with all the rest of the stench and filth.

Already a sickening ache was settling within him.

He needed to find shelter, and how?

Good question.

Somewhere, wherever it may be, that presented a payphone… Such an arbitrary thought, for since when were there any kinds of phones accessible to the general public?

Ashamed to say, most of today's newer implements were attesting themselves to be shoddy in comparison with the "ancient" yet still sufficient technology he grew up with. To make matters worse, the corporations were so compelled by the demand of their current generation that they were getting rid of what actually worked and had completely replaced them with their faultier devices. This was one reason why Capitalism sucks, both literally and figuratively, in his opinion. Then again, all systems were corrupt, greedy, and benefitted no one but usurpers in power.

The world was a vampire.

As it was once said to him by another; _"Mankind was nothing more than an arrogant beast, a useless species of narcissists. Otiose, ignorant, selfish, ungrateful and diseased, the only good they were capable of was how often they would run towards their demise and did so by the herds."_

Wait.

Kazuma stiffened for a moment. His orifice twisted into a hideous grimace when having felt his blood curdled suddenly in and under his skin. And there was a deadened chill which crawl over his skull, all prior to the puckering of his upper lip.

Why was he thinking like that? Correction, why did he think that?

Maybe it was merely him falling behind with the times and, because of that, he was gripped by his ever prevailing hostility?

No, the reason behind his ill-temperament was far deeper than that. What he abided in was "Misery" and in of her most genuine form, whereas his cynicism was their love child. Being "forsaken" was one setback out of the many he borne, and it played the utmost essential component as to why he had become such an epic failure.

But who could he really blame?

He had been dropped, discarded here as a godforsaken place, with no direction. His grace had been procured from him, but not by whores. And no longer did he believe in anything sacred, much to Heaven's disappointment.

The ginger had renounced everything, including the gods themselves.

…The "gods"?

Palpably there were no "gods", only "the few" who controlled "the many". In Kazuma's sense of veracity, there were no deities, only élites cads who dupe every single imbecile into believing that they were somehow "different" from the rest. And without fail the pathetic masses ate of it, partaking in the decay while the "gods" reaped the lots.

Intelligent being or not, an asshole was still an asshole…

…And boy did Koenma articulate through a paper one at that.

The "prince" might have fooled all and sundry, but he was neither "deity" nor a "demigod". Frankly, the pompous prick needed to keep his head mounted on his shoulders and away from his ass, away from where the sun never shined. All the more, emphatically, Koenma was merely a spoiled brat who knew and understood how the universe functioned.

Still, mind you, that damn bastard would do ANYTHING for Urameshi, which included a refraction of "the rules". And he did this for his "champion" though never for the likes of him, Kuwabara, especially when the sensitive needed him most.

The child had let him down, had turned him down flat onto his face, regardless how seriously the man had groveled upon his knees before him. The ginger could never forget that cloying smile, neither the faint twinkle of amusement that shined in the shade of the Prince's eyes.

For all of this and more, for what he had ensured, the demigod was deemed unforgivable, besmeared, and forever barred as a deceiver by the sensitive.

"Truth" was, indeed, sickening, vile yet exhilarating!

"THE NAKED TRUTH" was crude and validating.

"Freedom" was life's greatest lie, but it took a REAL "nobody" to cognize that.

"Equality" was a fallacy, and of which only fools believed in.

Hell, life itself was generally an unrelenting malefactor, for it mixed truth and lies, confusing them as one.

The validity of this datum was a heavy one, and the burden of which still continued to grind down upon the ex-fighter, mercilessly. After all this time, he was still bleeding, lasting a slow asphyxiation.

Kazuma could not bring himself to follow anyone, not anymore, and he had no "team" as far as he was concerned.

He was through with pretending, through with everyone's shit.

With an apocalypse on the rise, at last, he had begun to see… See that everything was twisted, wretched and hideous.

All that was left was rot, his broken dreams exposed as nothing more than fetid tales when his hopes had shattered at his feet. He received a revelation: they were all illusions, worthless efforts wasted on fruitless pursuits based on unrealistic ideologies. It was all a dream and, like all dreams, one must wake up. That was when the world had, at last, revealed its true face to him. Nothing was as picturesque as he had once anticipated, for the prophecy he had entertained himself and had done so since he was a child was all self-deception. The quixotic allure of life was no more than smoke and mirrors, a highbrow scheme conjured by wicked fiends to lead you into a state of exhaustion and emptiness.

Bliss was a canard conception, for life was cankered and effusively callous, obscured and cruel.

This useless existence was the muck in the well of tears, all ashes turned to mud.

Who was to blame for this…life of desolation?

Kazuma did not know anymore. He used to think he did know, and that he knew everything he needed to know, but that was long ago. Truth be told, he did not know where he was going anymore, nor did he feel as though he had a purpose "to be".

Perhaps he was anathematized due to his own impetuosity throughout his youth?

Anyhow, not even his keen precision with the knife or his mending skills could liberate him from this hell. Be that as it may, his true gift in this world was his belligerence and his whetted knack for slicing through bone and tissue.

His constitutions were strong, gluttonous for blood so it seemed. As a matter of fact, he worked as a butcher before and during those nine years of his college attendance, and to which afterward he was a fully licensed medical surgeon. So, if anyone knew how to render flesh into tiny proportions, sever limbs either from joint or through bone, and carve so artistically through flesh… Look no further, for you had found your man.

Often regarded as "The Butcher" or "Doctor Butcher", Kazuma had practiced and experimented on many cadavers, having spent a vast majority of his time in morgues and dissection workshops, let alone a proficient butcher. You could say that he had become well acquainted with the deceased, and in due course became desensitized.

Irrefutably, Kazuma was more divine than any "deity", for he personated "god" on a systematic basis. This physician saved untold souls who were on the periphery of their demise.

He was far too familiar with that thin line between life and death, and recognized it so well that knew when another was gone and when one was about to croak.

True, death was inevitable.

But this clairvoyant could see it, feel it, hear it, and taste it…that ultimate release; i.e. their shedding away from this mortal coil.

Through discerning spirit pressure, he mutually experienced another creature's passing. Actually, he underwent this process with them and, with an established connection, psychosomatically proceeded along with these souls on their journey to "the other side". This bracing sensation of their departure was akin to a wave of cool, refreshing rain on a hot summer's day, and this essence crashed over him every time when an entity had sank their teeth into the dust. And, he knew everything there was to know concerning them, knowing strangers personally as they faded away.

Kazuma could not explain why this was or how it could be. The intuitive was extraordinarily intimate with death, more so than any underworld ferryman. All the more disconcerting, he remembered their names, each and every one of them. And he witnessed the world ripple, like a pool disturbed by a sudden pebble, whenever someone's light went out.

The curtains between this dimension and the others were like gossamers, and were almost frail when in opposition with HIS fingertips.

Likewise, he possessed an advanced perception on aura fields. He gauged individuals based on their glow. All the more peculiar, though, were the hair-like wires connected to the living. In time, he distinguished each of these threads and thus understood their purpose very clearly. Even more, each life form had mutable numbers, and of which decreased by the millisecond.

Concisely, Kazuma always knew when someone was going to die.

He could even restore the threads, if time permitted, or amputate them.

Kazuma had done so many times, and with his patience, saving lives while purposely destroying others he held to be contemptible.

He was the cutter that gutted the dissemblers, right alongside their tender bellies.

So, in a sense death had become an old friend of his, albeit their rapport had developed into a rather romanticized bond.

The psychic had been spared from his fate many times before. Death should have already been his, but she teased him accordingly to his flirtations with her.

But was it by time that he handed over his ghost, and by his own hands?

He understood well enough to know that he had nailed his coffin shut, and had nothing else to lose but his final breath…

…Any last words or goodbyes?

Death would only know for sure.

Notwithstanding, he had developed a preconception toward his own mortality… Though he was not exactly sure whether or not he would someday die, he was certain enough to believe that he could never be killed.

Without warning, the image of his childhood crayoning, the one he had reacquainted himself with prior to now, had flashed before him.

The psychic hardly cringed when his shoulder grazed against a chainwire fence, the tiny barbs rending shallow gouges in his flesh. Somehow, the metal had managed to break the surface of his skin…without damaging a single thread of his clothing.

This fog had made him susceptible to just about anything.

He craved to somehow sever through this insufferable brume.

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

* * *

I want to thank you all for your patience and time. I have been busy.

Any questions I had received, I have posted the replies onto my profile.

Like the story thus far? READ "WORMBOY", it's a one shot that's connected with this story.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.  
**WARNING:** This fiction contains dark things, including sick humor, and is not for the faint of heart.  
**PLEASE NOTE:** Kuwabara happens to be my favorite character from the series. I am NOT bashing him in any way, though I am looking at him from a realistic standpoint… So, Kuwa-fans beware, this is not for those who hold a total romanticized view of him and tend to forget his flaws. The previous chapter featured his mangled perception on the world.

* * *

**TOOL**

Wanting out of this fog, and as soon as possible, Kazuma picked up the pace.

The soles of his boots bashed against all in his path, breaking the dead stillness with the thwacking sounds that reverberated off the surroundings. Though the beat was originally faint, it was magnified ten times by the obscured structures.

He continued to hoof his way down the pavement, shadowing the chain-link fence until he had reached its end. Upon reaching the edge of the sidewalk, he traversed through the empty thoroughfare, never minding the pedestrian laws as he ran. He suddenly bolted midway in the intersection, shortly afterward, when he beheld with his eyes—

"…_Blood?" _

—Smeared on the asphalt beneath him.

With catholic eyes, he faltered and took several steps back. _"What the hell happened here?"_

He scanned the road, noting the bits and chunks of flesh were spread across the surface like marmalade on toast. The expression upon his features contorted, supposing that a terrible accident had occurred sometime recently… But that did not explain the peculiar characteristics of the streaks, which come across as though someone drenched in blood had wallowed on one lane and then tottered off down another.

Kazuma studied the stains, observing how fresh they actually were, as his eyes followed the trail to the left of him. That was when he had caught sight of a silhouette, one that lurched away and disappeared into the fog.

Wait. There was someone here after all?

He palmed his face, deadpanned at how slow he had proved himself to be just then. _"Duh. Where the fuck else could the blood have possibly came from?" _

…Blood?

Ascertaining by how incredibly awkward the person's gait was, or at least by what he had seen, there was no doubt in his mind that the individual was terribly injured.

"SHIT." He hissed at himself.

However, there was something mightily strange about this. He had not sense any source of life or energy in the entire area, not even from the figure. And yet, as unnerving as these contexts were, the philanthropist within himself had kicked in, and so he pushed his own needs aside and proceeded after the character.

"HEY. COME BACK!" Kazuma called out as he ran blindly through the mist.

Note that Kazuma's lack of good judgment was based either upon his good nature or sheer folly, though most likely the latter. Mind you, Yusuke would never consciously pursue after an ominous form, especially one that casually left behind a trail of blood and possessed no spirit signature. No, you have to be out of your ever bloody mind to do such an absurd thing as that.

Maybe the psychic's brain was broken, too, for if he had heeded to his common sense he would have headed off into the opposite direction. Why? Because he had pierced reason in the ass and fucked it, right in the new hole he had created and with his finger rolling around in the wound.

Has not experience taught him anything?

According to The Encarta Dictionary, to be "stupid" means to be "regarded as showing a lack of intelligence, perception, or common sense".

So, if you lack any of those mentioned you are considered "dimwitted" by default.

On the other hand, even though those terms befitted Yusuke quite well, this may not necessarily be the case for the psychic.

Why?

"Insanity" and "stupidity" were NOT exactly one and the same and, though the two shared great similarities with one another, there was a thin line between the two of them. A stupid person does not think before he acts and therefore is deemed risky, but an insane person does think and yet puts himself in reach of harm's way anyway.

The psychic was "a bit off", which implied that he not exactly "stupid".

Yusuke had "lunacy" eating at him at one point, absolutely, though only for a short amount of time and for a blameless reason. He needed to adjust to his awakened demon nature and he was confused as to where his life was taking him.

Kuwabara was "insane" all the time, since day one.

Hell, he had to be "mad" in order for him to unremittingly challenge others who persistently mop the floor with him.

For Yusuke there was no way out, no other way around it, when facing Sensui. Then again, Yusuke was not thinking clearly when he had sacrificed himself. He happened to admit to this later, personally, and likewise mentioned toward his own negligence.

Besides, Yusuke had been blackmailed into the role of being a spirit detective, while Kazuma had put himself out there and without a gun held to his head. Yusuke had created a democracy in Makai, had brought peace to the worlds, and still managed to established a personal business of his own while Kuwabara clung wretchedly to his dreams of Yukina. And while Yusuke had proven himself to be perfectly stable, despite having jumped the gun so many times, Kuwabara was an outright "disturbed" tool.

Kuwabara's relationship with his team had always been a fatal one, although in some twisted way this stooge was needed. For an example, he had offered himself up to Toguro, freely, and still lived to tell the tale. Again, he naively spared a boy who had attempted to murder his closest friends, nearly killing his posse off like insects caught within a giant roach motel.

He had his priorities all wrong, that or something was not right with him.

Kazuma was obsessive and eccentric, self-righteous and condescending. His unwavering determination, though oftentimes an admirable trait, was explicit unadulterated mania, while his virtues were based solely on a speculative understanding of himself and the world around him.

In honesty, he had driven himself beyond deserving anyone else's respect. This was why his friends were so few and far in between. No one could bring themselves to respect a "madman", especially one who was so insecure and had so many faults.

Unmistakably, the man was loathed, though not just for those reasons mentioned.

"HOLD ON! I'M A DOCTOR!" He shouted as he continued the pursuit. "I CAN HELP YOU!"

No shit, Watson. That's what doctors generally do.

The clouds above him revolved like a wheel as the light around him had begun to wane.

Darkness draped over the entire town, perturbingly suffocating the remaining light like an opaque coverlet drawn over a sleeping newborn. The unforeseen blackness almost blinded him, having swiftly encroached upon his reality.

Well, this was not what he had expected.

He balked, nearly crashing into a large, hollow pole. But as a result of having knocked against the sluice anyway, a dull clanging vibrated in his ears.

"Shit. Shit. Shit."

Fortuitously, he could see the energy that made up the structures with his inner "third eye". Nevertheless, until his eyes attuned, he pulled out his cellphone and employed the built in flashlight.

The latest technology was not so bad after all, eh, Kuwabara?

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

* * *

I'd like to thank those who insist on reading this story. I also like to thank my readers who continue to follow and wait patiently.

The good stuff is coming, don't worry. :)

**Author's Second Note, aka THE VERBAL THROW UP:** I try to be a realistic fan of this guy. Yes, despite being a fan I am not blinded to his faults nor to the reasons why others may not like him. The way I see it, both his fans and the ones who "hate" him tend to fail in seeing all sides of him. While the haters only see the bad, the fans only see the good. I don't want to be like either one of those fans. I try to be reasonable and look at the whole picture, with all its details, from a logical standpoint. I also did quite a bit of research, mind you, and consider what I am writing and for what reasons. Truly, there is not enough fiction on Kuwabara, but at the same time many fail to see the true potential he already has or lies hidden. They keep... romanticizing him, writing off his bad traits as though they are nonexistent and only focusing on what they believe to be good traits. Honestly, a true fan wouldn't and shouldn't need to throw away his faults but utilize them in order to make interesting situations and plots. Kuwabara has plenty to offer his fans and the like, that is, to work with. I've come to realize that you don't necessarily need to add anything to him, but if you wish to please make sure it's not too outlandish and that it doesn't butcher his character completely.  
And to be perfectly honest, I love love this character because "of" and "for" his flaws! It's one hell of a good damn reason why I prefer him over the other characters, for the others are just too damn perfect for my tastes. Think about it all for a moment and do your research on what it takes to make a great story with great characters. I ought to know, I've fucked up so many times myself and had gotten sick of doing so. By the way, most of my friends HATE Yu Yu Hakusho for many...valid reasons why (sadly). Notwithstanding their excellent and indisputable points they have made to me, somehow I still stay loyal to this anime... Kuwabara is my ONLY reason why.  
**The Third Note:** Allow me to clear this up even further. This story is based on what I've read, seen, heard, etc...and is my interpretation of them. Yes, I am utilizing all information. Please be patient, for not everything has not been reviewed or mentioned and will be throughout the story.  
I INSIST THAT YOU READ "WORMBOY" FOR IT GOES WITH THIS STORY.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.  
**Note:** Sorry for the lousy title in this chapter. By the way, I don't simply receive my inspiration from books and movies. In fact, most of my inspiration comes from the music I listen to.

* * *

**HOMECOMING**

In frustration Kuwabara sullenly ushered a breath out between his pressed lips, and he did so as he roamed tenaciously about in the dark for a moment or two, searching with that wee fluorescent light until he rediscovered the bloodstain imprints he had been following thus far.

Almost immediately then, his ears singled out a strange whirring.

His gaze followed that rustling hum skyward, hearing grating and crackling sounds, as well as metallic tings. He anticipated the overhead streetlamps to flicker on, but none of that came to pass.

The psychic cursed, all the more thwarted.

Actually, he broke out into a sweat and, as hot and cold chills washed over him, his body was virtually consumed by tremors.

He, likewise, became goose pimply.

Why?

Kazuma detested this kind of dark, for this swathing obscurity reminded him of the dark entities whom he had often dealt with in his childhood. Quite frankly, he was as anxious as a cat in a bag in a watery hell.

An ominous light flashed above him in a tree-like pattern, rippling through the black space. As this occurred, the billows themselves greatly resembled a monstrous body of dark, violent water, as though a tumultuous sea had somehow suspended itself there where the sky should be.

Regardless of the astounding phenomenon, be that as it may, he picked up his feet and bolted.

"_Look at you. You're weak."_ He suddenly heard a voice come at him and from out of nowhere. _"You've always been weak."_

Kazuma recognized the voice, and it belonged to none other than Hiei. But frankly, he had no idea as to why he would be thinking of that bastard, let alone be hearing his voice inside his head and at a time like this.

"Fuck off, dickhead!" The psychic swore as he pressed on, having reinstated his attention toward the blood trail. He was determined to find the person before it was too late, not wanting to leave whoever it was behind in this terror.

"_You're a useless fool."_ He heard the voice continue as he resumed tracking. _"You don't deserve to exist, much less breathe."_

"_Spare me your bullshit!"_ The psychic heard own voice resound in that retort and yet he had not spoken another word. _"You don't know what the fuck you're saying!"_

"_Hn. Says you."_ The demon defied, his voice dripping with his usual smugness. _"The way I see it, the universe should have omitted you from creation."_

"_Is that so?"_ He heard himself sneer. _"Funny hearing that from you, since you are the universe literally taking a load on itself! In fact, you are the steaming pile that it squeezed right out of its asshole! GO FUCK YOURSELF, YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT!"_

A loud, guttural roar thundered around him as ruby droplets crashed down onto his dashing form.

Ever obstinate, Kazuma kept his gaze at the road, mindful of any obstacles that may arise in his path. Aside, he noticed something else that was inexplicable… The asphalt was now grotesque and littered with deep cracks, marred far more than he remembered, while the sidewalks were covered in a sordid grunge.

Meanwhile, his eardrums were hammered with a sudden bombardment of explosions, whereas their sonic waves aggressively shook him near off his feet.

As an air raid siren howled into his reality, he felt as though something was clawing at him from behind…

…Something...not so friendly…

…And as perplexing as it may sound, he felt the skin of his face begin to sizzle and burn.

But as the lurid nightmare came, and though it had not lifted just as swiftly, the blackness finally dispelled and all faded back to the way it had been before.

Panting, the sensitive slowed down to a halt.

"The fuck? What the fuck was that about?" His gaze roved as he regained his composure. "Am I tripping balls or did that shit seriously happen?"

He even checked himself everywhere for a sign but there was none and, though his coat and other attire were damp, he was clean.

"The fuck?" He wheezed.

After realizing that he had ran a whole few blocks, his train of thought was suddenly disrupted by a loud fizzing roar. He whirled himself on his heels to face the source and beheld a dull, four sided light shimmering like a ghost in the fog. As he drew closer to this light, it became clear to him that the hideous sound was "white noise" and it emitted from a black box with a flickering screen. And though there was no picture, he detected the clear pang of a heart monitor.

Amongst the interminable electronic rain and vital beeping, rang through another sound…wailing.

Screams resounded from out of the speakers, as though the voices themselves emanated from deep within a precipice. He conceived an impression that there were many of them, as though they were writhing in torment, terrorized by something he could not see.

"Kuwabara!" he discerned a distorted shriek from amidst the racket.

Kazuma had glowered almost immediately when having distinguished whom the voice belonged to. "…Urameshi?"

At first, he thought he was merely hearing things, but that clearly was not the case when the screaming continued.

"I'M…, KUWAB…!" Though ambiguous, a message managed through. "I'M…RRY! I…SO…ORRY! I…ailed…! …GOD…YOU F…BASTARD! OH SH…! NO!"

Without warning, the light from the screen withered out with a flash while the frequencies were succumbed by silence.

He tensed up.

Was this some sort of joke? It better NOT be for whoever's sake, for if this was a hoax he was going to give whoever was responsible a fat, repulsively bloody lip.

Well, actually that was putting it lightly.

"I'm going to fuck them up..." He hissed beneath his breath, forcing the words through bared teeth. "...Bury them alive, then dance and piss on their grave!"

As he balled his hands into tight fists, Kazuma noticed that the glass in the window was glazed over in a repulsive substance. He grimaced to himself, having recognized the film to be ectoplasm. Though the window was protected by black iron bars, areas of the glass were fractured with holes. The clammy iron was corroded, eaten away by attrition.

Upon further examination of the windowpane, he spotted a peculiar notice posted on the outside of the window.

Kazuma narrowed his eyes as he studied the paper closely.

"SON OF SAMEK…" He read the bold letters printed in standardized font. "…THE ELOHIM OF DEATH."

Skepticism was his initial reaction, but that dwindled when he noticed that the figure's face had been scratched out.

He grunted. Someone obviously despised the guy, and to which he could relate with. People often proved themselves to be ridiculous. Even more, he figured that when having seen the hate speech handwritten all over the poster.

"THE…BOGEYMAN…" Kazuma read one out loud, ignoring the more vulgar scratches. "All beware…the son of Sam. Not all reap what they sow."

Well, whoever this guy was, Kazuma could see that he was overtly masculine, muscular, and robust with broad shoulders.

After taking several steps back, he surveyed the structure before him for a sign.

Slowly but surely his surroundings became more distinctive, though the dense haze still remained.

He observed the peculiar symbolisms painted upon the structure's walls. One of the symbols was that of an upside-down pentagram, with an eye as its midpoint, and to which was encased by three circles. There were crosses, too, and others reminded him of geometrical shapes on acid. Though he had seen these symbols somewhere before, they were not traditionally of his culture. Then again, he was not exactly sure where he had seen these symbols. He just had a gut feeling that they meant something to him…perhaps something important?

"HIROKO'S HOARD…" Kazuma stared at the sign that hung over the walkway. "…Hiroko's Hoard? What the hell? Where have I heard that— Wait. The old man use to come here."

He backed up more, only to rear-end into something. Still on pins and needles, he spun around only to realize that he had bumped into a street post, with him now standing on the corner of the sidewalk. And that was when he peered up with those dark, beady little orbs of his from those deep sunken eyes.

"No… No way…" He shook his head in disbelief, having read the street signs. "Is this a coincidence or am I…losing my shit?" His eyes were wide and unreeling, though only after having bulged in their sockets. "This..."

Kazuma took off in whichever direction.

Chop-chop!

He ran down the street and meandered around, determined to blow this situation out of the water. However, the proof of the pudding was in the eating and he quickly realized the truth. Of course, he did not run about throughout the entire city, he was smarter than that, though he did waste a good ten minutes or so before he located a public map about seven blocks down.

Mind you, he could not see past eleven feet, thirteen feet maximum, in this fog.

Upon examining the map at the metro stop, color drained itself away from his complexion.

"This can't be… I left that—this fucking hell hole years ago!" Kazuma yelled at the map in an accusing tone. "How did I get here? I was miles away from here moments ago! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

Pressure had built well up inside of him; he was a walking, breathing glass case of emotion.

He slammed the bottom of his boot against the metro chart and deliberately smashed it against the concrete. The metal bars had snapped on impact, amazingly, while the safety glass had been crushed.

Now, that was just pointless.

Slowly backing away from the spot, he raked his fingertips up past his temples and back across his scalp. After gripping his hair by the roots, his hands dropped back to his sides afore his shoulders slumped.

Jumping into traffic seemed like an awfully good idea right about then, but as far as he could tell the entire town was empty.

Everything was empty and decrepit. The buildings appeared abandoned and were smothered in years old mold, filth and dust, while the smudged windows and doors were boarded up. Trash and litter was scattered everywhere.

What happened to this place? It was nothing like this when he left. And there was no way in hell that he was reason as to why this place fell apart.

"This can't be…" His voice cracked as his tone weakened. "…This can't be…"

By then his skin was crawling, while his nerves tingled and prickled as if stung by tiny ants. As his muscles shuddered, he knew that he was suffering from "nervous tics".

Though he had often referred to it as "The Tickle", he had been diagnosed with a Neurological Syndrome as a child. This explained the recurring anxiety and the twitching nerves, of course, but not the actual horrors that came with them…

Time and time again, nervous disorder or not, his demons have been proven to be real and "the tingles" served him as an effective warning method.

Something was undoubtedly near.

That was when he remembered the silhouette.

You know, the "obviously injured" person whom he had been following since the last chapter?

The poor soul had lumbered off…but to where exactly? He assumed by now that, after having taken into consideration the massive amount of blood loss, either the person had somehow managed to get to the hospital or…

…Had died alone in a gutter somewhere.

"Fuck!"

A loud panging resounded in his head...

**[WELCOME HOME]**

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

* * *

**A/N:** And so the story FINALLY begins. Took forever, right?

Thank you all for your time and your reviews. Feel free to criticize. :)

Oh, and about the "neurological syndrome"… I dug hard and researched this way before deciding to use it in my material. Say what you want, but it is what it is. People don't just have…"tingles" when they sense spirits. Goose bumps, yes, but not "the tingles." "Tingles" and goose pimples are not one and the same. Goose bumps, though caused either by fear or cold, are small bumps in the skin that are caused by tightening muscles, which pull body hair into an erect position. "Tingles" belong to a more severe nervous condition, usually found in those with more acute levels of anxiety and, to be more precise, Post-Traumatic Stress patients.

I'm slaying plot-bunnies left and right and, though I intend to keep Kuwabara in character, I can't help myself but to make corrections on shit that does not make sense. You see, I actually intend to put Kuwabara to good use and allow him to be a person rather than play his role of being a "tool" and "the butt". …Okay, he'll still be "the butt" and not so much of a "tool".

Forgive me, father, for I have a wretched sense of humor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I do NOT own Yu Yu Hakusho, nor do I own its characters.

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the wait. Here's another chapter. If nothing makes sense, it will eventually… Well, kind of. You'll see.

* * *

**WIDE AWAKE**

A loud panging resounded in his head, a sensation that felt like a power drill boring through his skull. Instinctively, the man clutched at his head and shielded his ears, as if that would block out the sudden, loud and piercing ring. He cringed from a searing pain when those waves had crashed into his tympanums.

"_I'm sorry…"_ He managed to make sense of words, which echoed in his awareness. _"…But ever since she had left, __**he's never been the same… And**__ that incident did not make matters any better than what they were."_

Other, more familiar voices scratched at his mind.

"_Why did she leave him?" _This question pierced his mind.

"_Hn… She became afraid of him...after what he did, after realizing what he was. But that's just half of it; __**she can't stand the sight of him**__. She can't bring herself to gaze upon him, __**not even a glance.**__ She won't come here, not even near here."_

He then heard a spurt of laughter. _"He took a nosedive from 'ugly' to 'ugliest'!"_

"_How could you say that? What they did to him is unforgiveable! __**He wallowed there**__ in his own damn blood for fuck sakes, __**bleeding from head to toe, stripped of his own dignity**__! __**And**__ I don't care what any of you say; those nut jobs got what they deserved!" _

When having heard this next statement, it became known that the prior assertion had been clearly pushed aside;_ "Seriously, who could blame her? Then again, I wouldn't be caught __**dead **__**with the likes of him.**__ Why couldn't he see that she merely took pity on him? I mean, how selfish can that useless bastard be? How could he expect her to love him? That's asking for far too much, especially when she's way beyond his league!"_

"_**Love**__ is a two way street, bitch."_

"_What's love got to do with mating? Hello__**? **__**Love doesn't exist**__; it's just a chemical reaction in the brain! He's a doctor, __**he should know this by now…**__ Obviously, he was bent on forcing her into __**that wretched bonding ritual**__, and all because of her looks. What a perverted prick! He should have left her alone and stayed in his class. Why would a goddess pair off with…that? She has rights and he __**violated**__ them! Moreover, he still has it in his head that demons are fiends, while overlooking what he is __**and **__what he's done! So, NO, he got what he deserved! __**Served him **__right__** to be **__**sacrificed! He's a monster**!__" _

_"**Now**,_ _I hear what you're saying, even though it's clear that you're off your fucking rocker**…** **So** I __**m**__ust __**a**__sk __**y**__ou this: does __**the punishment fit the crime**?__ **...**True, __**he was always so unlike**__ her, or __**the others**__ for that matter**. **__**This matter only proves the obvious, **__**that**__ she needs to be with her own kind. She DID try to leave him before the incident, remember?"_

A cold breeze washed through him suddenly, only he felt as though he was on fire.

"_You should have stayed out of this war." _Another familiar voice entered into his reality._ "You have no business being here."_

"_He can't hear you. He's in a coma brought on by his own delirium."_

"_No. You're wrong. __**He's finding himself**__, is all__**. You**__'re wrong."_

"_...That idiot. He __**should have stayed away.**__"_

"_We're losing him!"_

"_I'm afraid that I must beg to differ…"_ said yet another. _"__**Kazuma Kuwabara is **__**dead**__**...**"_

"…_He's been __**dead**__**.**"_

"_**Y**__et an__**o**__ther victim in this so-called war. __**U**__gh."_

"…_That's not what __**killed him**__, though it could have attributed toward his demise__**.**__ Nevertheless, __**the man**__ you once knew __**is dead**__ and has been for some time, and for another reason…__**and**__ what lies before __**you**__ now was not even remotely human." _

"_Life __**killed him.**__"_

A moment had passed before he found himself staring upward, his dizzy eyes scanning every detail in the white above. He mentally traced a number of the great white's threads before he had recognized it for what it was.

He remained still for another moment's time until it dawned upon him that he was no longer standing but lying in a horizontal position. A beat passed as he shifted his fingers with intent, his first attempt to recognize the surface beneath him. As he managed to coil one finger, ever so slightly, he realized a profound stiffness in his joints. His body was throbbing yet numb and unable to feel the coolness of the material, or any feature in the cradle. And it was not until confusion had settled in that he understood how stiff the skin and muscles were, particularly the meat on his facial bones, so much so that he was unable to shift an eyebrow or bat a single eyelid.

Actually, his eyes felt irritated and bare. What was more, he felt as though a bus had literally rolled over him, soaked him in petroleum and then set him aflame…and yet he felt cold, so deaden.

That was when something clicked in his brain. No, he literally felt a profound snap behind his eyes.

Then and only then did he comprehend completely that he was no longer standing in a street, nor was he in the stance he was in last, or so he recalled. But there was that familiar stench. Still circulating within eddies of air...was that reeking scent of decay.

As his nails scratched at the surface below, he summoned every ounce of his energy and pushed himself into an upright position. And as he rose into a hunch, the white veil fell away from his eyes; that part of the fabric having settled over his lap.

A husky sigh escaped him, one of which tapered out into a burbling growl.

Gathered around him were machines with faces, though they stood mostly to his left while they and he were enveloped in white… It was a room of white, though the paint on the walls was marred with taint and crackled with age. There was a sound beyond the door, a loud wailing and echoing chatter. It was such a peculiar looking door, one of steel rather than wood. There was also a window in this door, and this window was covered with a thick screen. And after having gazed around, he realized that there were no synthetic lights, there were no fixtures above him, and that the only source of light there to be found peered in through the small, barred window to his upper right.

As he tried to narrow his gaze, he was reminded of the stiffness in his face while his eyes ached and those muscles tingled with pain. Mechanically, he reached up with his right hand and touched the surface of his cheek. And he experienced, what he could, a waxy film and a thin meshed material overlapping the features of his face.

His fingertips pricked at the gauze. He felt for an edge as his nails clawed at the material.

Whines whirled and bubbled up from within his throat. He became more anxious by every passing second as he tore away the dressings, making use of both his hands. As his eyes shifted frantically, he began to panic, having noticed the thick straps linked to his bedstead. And as he peeled away the remainder of the cloth, his fingers traced and brushed against rough features, feeling the parts of his mouth and nose only to make a horrifying discovery.

A wail thundered as he emptied his lungs, his voice seared with torment, while his vision shuddered along with the room.

Seconds later, a clatter of footsteps came fast and nearer. Consumed by his misery, he had lost all sense of time and failed to see the shadows that loomed in and invaded his space. And he writhed and thrashed against those menacing figures as they latched themselves upon him, exerting themselves as they fought to hold him down and to keep him in place.

All around him, they were screaming. Their screams were perhaps directed at him, or perhaps directed at one another, or maybe all the above?

Suddenly enraged by their efforts, and their lack of empathy, he slammed a hand into one creature's face. At that very moment, he felt their bones crack under the force of his blow, and then shortly marveled at his fingertips coated in a fresh red. Such a feeling brought him such pleasure, and it continued to do so as he witness that being stumbled back and crash onto the floor. And this was more than a simple reaction, that feeling of triumph he received when defeating a rival, instead it was a sense of elation akin to sexual gratification…

…Or perhaps better?

More of them came and circled around him, while others gathered around their fallen one. And he continued to resist as they struggled with him, determined to overpower him.

Having lost his patience, he summoned his best sword and, with great intent, slashed through them…all of them.

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

* * *

**Inside Note:** All insanity is thus, and is the reason by the previous six chapters lack sense and why this one seems so random. Quite often our dreams make little to no sense to the logical mind, and oftentimes it's our subconscious talking to us. For Kazuma, his mind was combing through his memories and pointing out what it believed to be significant.

The story is an attempt to write from the perspective of a broken mind. It's not parody of Silent Hill. (Gotchya! But seriously, did you think I would want to give away the plot?)

"Demons" by Brian McFadden is to blame.

Also, I edited this chapter because I had found errors.


End file.
